Twenty Below and Dropping
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: In which it's winter, there's power outages, cold, warmth, blankets, and John finds that Sherlock is an awfully warm individual.


**Twenty Below and Dropping**

"No!"

John's voice cut through the abrupt silence of the flat when the power faltered. It was out for a half second, clicked back in, before going out once again. It didn't come back on.

John was left staring at the blank screen of the telly. "That was the critical part!" he stated heatedly, looking towards the windows. "Come on!"

"John, you do realize that yelling in the general direction of the lines isn't going to bring back the elec-"

"No. Sherlock, no. Just, no." John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You aren't complaining, because, look, you're on a laptop. Nothing that you're busy with is messed up."

"Catch it on reruns."

"That's not the point..." But there wasn't a point to argue; Sherlock was someone who watched telly on rare occasions, and when he did, he usually just insulted the people on the screen.

John stood, meandering idly over to the window. It had started snowing earlier in the day and, with nightfall, it seemed the precipitation had picked up.

"The snow's done it."

"Good deduction."

"... So, how long do you think the power'll be out?"

"Hard to say," Sherlock replied, not looking up over the tapping of the keyboard.

"Mmm. Right." John sank into his chair and pulled his own laptop out.

* * *

Two hours of silence was later broken by Sherlock's sudden exhale of breath. John glanced up. "What's up?"

"Battery's dead." Sherlock looked up at John expectantly.

"Oh, no. No. Not again, not after the last time, Sherlock."

"It was a rogue virus, John, easily fixed."

"It wiped a third of my desktop!"

"Well, honestly, what sort of important material could you have? Your atrocious love letters hardly count."

"That is not the point!"

"Oh, dear God, John, it was all replacable."

"Sentiment, Sherlock. It's all sentimentality at its finest and you would not understand."

"I wouldn't. I don't. Never will."

"Great."

John never felt Sherlock's eyes leave him. After five minutes, perturbed and irritated, John raised his gaze and fixed Sherlock with a glare. "No," he repeated.

"John, I need something to do, I'll-"

"-complain my ear off the entire time? Oh wait, you do that all the time."

"I'm serious!"

"Regrettably, so am I."

Silence descended once again.

* * *

It was broken by John closing his laptop some time later, sinking lower in his chair. "It's cold..." he murmured, to himself.

"Hm?"

"Cold."

"Bed."

"What?"

"Go to bed. The blankets will retain your body heat."

"Oh. Right." John glanced at the battery-operated clock on the wall. It was just past seven. It really wasn't late enough for bed. It was, actually, past time for supper. As if on cue, John's stomach growled. Sighing, he relinquished the warmth from his laptop to slide it under the chair before walking to the kitchen.

A half a cold scone later and some nearly gone-bad milk, John finally gave up on fighting the cold and wandered to his bedroom. It wasn't late and he wasn't tired but he was cold and Sherlock's company wasn't really company at all.

* * *

The power still hadn't come back on by two in the morning and John, unable to sleep and unwilling to do anything else, was stuck somewhere in between annoyance and sheer exhaustion as he stumbled out of his bedroom. He refused to let go of the sheets and so he dragged them along with him, trying his best not to trip over them.

Sherlock was on the couch, sitting up, and for a moment, John thought he was asleep. But, when he approached, those curiously coloured eyes sprung onto him. John nearly jumped.

"Do you ever sleep?"

"I could ask the same."

"I was asleep. I woke up." John paused. "Aren't you cold?" John could clearly see the small puff of his breath when he talked, it had to be below zero outside, but Sherlock was only wearing his ratty dressing gown from before.

"I only feel cold when I think that I'm cold. So, no, I'm not cold. I'm toasty, in fact."

John couldn't tell if Sherlock was perfecting his sarcasm or if he was serious; if anyone could fend off the cold with the proper thinking, it would be Sherlock Holmes to do it.

He sank onto the couch next to Sherlock, staring at the wall as his eyes adjusted to the darkness once again. His shivering had redoubled from the short walk on the cold floor, and he tightened the blankets around him the best that he could.

He caught Sherlock's sideways glance at him.

"What?"

"You're really that cold?"

John nodded fractionally. "Yes. Normal human being, I am one."

There was a moment's pause before the blankets were pulled off his shoulders. John inhaled slightly at the rush of cold air, preparing to verbally lash out at Sherlock when arms locked with his; he was forced sideways on the couch.

"Sher-!" He started, angry, when his back hit what he presumed was Sherlock's back. He could feel warmth, even through their clothes, and it prompted him to stay exactly where he was without arguing.

Sherlock's arms untangled from his and draped the blankets around them both. John stared at the peeling wallpaper for a moment. Sherlock was silent on his end, too.

"... Well, this is awkward," John muttered.

"You aren't moving," Sherlock replied.

"Well, no, it's warm. You're warm."

"I told you it was a matter of will power."

"Oh, piss off."

John could almost hear Sherlock's inevitable smirk, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

John could also feel Sherlock shivering, minutely, but he chose not to bring that to their attentions, either.

* * *

John was alone when he woke up, the blankets thrown haphazardly over him. He yawned widely, cast a glance at the clock, and sat up. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, and while Sherlock was an early riser, four a.m. was not his rising time.

He was dreadfully warm and shedded the blankets for a more favourable climate. It took him a second to realize the heat was on again. He crossed the room and hit the lightswitch; light flooded the room and left him squinting against the brightness.

He breathed a quick sigh of relief and rubbed his hands together before heading up to the bedrooms. He knocked on Sherlock's door, but, upon receiving no reply, cracked the door open. Sherlock was sprawled out in bed, looking something like a lanky, lazy cat. John procured a smile before he closed the door again.

As usual, things were fine at 221B Baker Street once again.

* * *

**Review if you read, please and thanks.**


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